Sour Pizza
by ko-drabbles
Summary: Oikawa Tooru was a failure. TW: Eating disorder, purging.


Oikawa was a failure.

That wasn't new. It wasn't a revelation. No one would be shocked at that announcement. However, if one cast their eyes to the speaker, the slightest bit intrigued, then they would see the truly shocking thing about it. That Oikawa Tooru was the first one to say such a thing, and it was so painfully, pitifully genuine.

The thing was that it _was_ the truth. No one would believe he thought that, but he did. A boy failed to make himself out of nothing but hunger busters and diet coke. He failed to carve himself into something smaller, something frail and beautiful, something perfect. He tried to be so light and slender, he tried to be sick.

He wanted to lay in bed and feel how his hipbones strained against his skin, how concave his stomach was, how his ribs were like ridges and valleys in his chest. He wanted dainty collarbones and a gap between his thighs. He wanted to be light enough to be carried, so sweet and dizzy; no, he wanted to _need_ to be carried, like a lovely little doll. He wanted his weight to be so small, that every chart had him in the red.

He was grown, there was nothing left to stunt, and his knee already caused him so much grief that he popped painkillers like candy. The image of Iwa-chan, carrying him through the house in a princess carry, soft and worried as if he'd simply break apart with rougher treatment, was extremely appealing. To have to stay in bed with soft blankets, too dizzy to stand, was a goal.

If he couldn't play volleyball anymore, like the doctor said, then he needed something else to latch onto. It didn't matter, he didn't need to be healthy and muscular, he could just… let himself be ill, like he dreamed of long ago. Of course, he knew he shouldn't; it wasn't good, or normal, but it was tugging on his heart and his mind. Skinny, delicate, perfect.

He resisted, kicking and screaming as he clutched at the entrance to the rabbit hole, fingers digging into the dirt. He fought. He fought every second of the day. Still, in every store there seemed to be diet pills, and every magazine talked about _thin_ ; lose nine pounds in a week, even though the recommended rate of weight loss in that amount of time is one to two pounds. Get thin and do it quick – to hell with the consequences! No one loves a fatty!

Still, when Hajime asked if he just wanted to get a pizza, he said yes. He took an hour to actually make the decision, agonising over calories and health and Iwa-chan, but still. He was a fucking pig, he shouldn't eat like that, especially now that exercising wasn't so easy.

He pondered that as he sat alone, Hajime having gone to bed not even an hour ago, with a hand clamped over his mouth. He was so nauseous, so guilty, and he couldn't stand it. He should go wake his boyfriend up, like some responsible crazy person, but he… he couldn't. He didn't want to. Besides, between himself and the bedroom, was the bathroom.

He wanted to go there.

Taking shaking, eerily calm steps, he shed his dressing gown, turned on the light, and stepped inside. The door closing was quiet, the toilet inviting and right in front of him, merely a step away. His side glance met with his own wide, questioning eyes in the mirror before he sank to his knees, hovering over the bowl, the only noise the extractor fan.

He didn't turn on the tap, not like the people he'd read about on the internet.

His fingers slipped passed his lips and teeth so naturally, so easily, depressing his tongue and venturing further as he arched his back. Down to the back of his throat, to the very back of his tongue. He could feel his oesophagus clenching at first, taking a couple of tries before his stomach got the message, and a few more to hack up partly digested, cola stained pizza. It was sour on his tongue, and his fingers were slick with thick, mucus-y saliva.

He just… stared. Only a bite or two came up, and it'd been hours. If he stopped then and there, he was fine. It wasn't that bad. But then again… Didn't he _want_ this? If he left now… Did that mean he was just a faker? His head chased the ideas like a dog chasing its own tail, idiotic and dizzying, and so Tooru stood up.

He did it, just like that. He stood, washed his hands and brushed his teeth – not forgetting to flush the toilet – and left that bathroom. It was calm, yet scared, like before he'd done it. The only difference was getting splashes of bile in his mouth when he hiccupped. That was all.

It was a weird, eye of the storm sort of experience; knowing that it was bad, yet it all felt oddly serene. This wasn't what it was supposed to be like, not if you were truly ill. Weren't you meant to cry? Breakdown? Maybe he wasn't even that sick to begin with, yet he obsessed on it like an _actual problem_.

The only thing he felt was guilt. He caused enough problems without this stupid want to thin and sickly, let alone forcing himself to throw up. But still… If Oikawa Tooru was thin, and pretty, and breakable; he was worth something. Perfect.

He _will_ be perfect.


End file.
